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TWO LECTURES 



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PART OF A COURSE DELIVERED 



AT THE 



NEW-TORS ATHENAEUM 



IN FEBRUARY AND MARCH, 1836, 



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BY RICHARD RAY 

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G. & C. CARVILL, BROADWAY, 
1826. 



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Printed by 
VANDBRPOOL, AND COLE, 

104 Boekmavj-street, 



LECTURE I. 

ON THE GENERAL SPIRIT AND TENDENCY OF CLASSI- 
CAL LITERATURE. 



LECTURE II. 

ON THE INFLUENCE OF THE REVIVAL OF CLASSICAL 
LITERATURE UPON LETTERS AND THE ARTS. 



m^OTW^s s« 



I propose to consider in this lecture the 
general spirit and tendency of Classical 
Literature. 

I approach with reverence so great a 
subject ; I feel all the difficulty of treating 
with originality that which has employed 
the pens of some of the first of men ; and 
like one who wanders spell-bound amid the 
ruins of a mighty empire, I find the inade- 
quacy of words to express the beauty, the 
sublimity, the imagination, which reign in 
these relics spared by time. Yet, if a love, 
ardent and sincere, for classical studies ; if 
a mind, I hope I may say without vanity, 
in some degree imbued from its earliest 
thoughts with recollections cherished and 
called up by a thousand associations of an- 
cient annals ; if many hours, I dare not say 



wasted in the contemplation of these mo- 
dels of European — of our own literature, 
can give a claim to your attention, I ask 
it. Classical themes, classical associations, 
form alone the inspiration to which I must 
look for eloquence — yet even in the names 
themselves there is eloquence. The very 
words alone, Greece and Rome, raise in us 
emotions, — they bring to our minds those 
talismanic terms, which are literally burn- 
ing words, for Leonidas, Marathon, Plataea, 
and a host of others, seem but personifica- 
tions of liberty, — and no matter in what 
clime the oppressor's yoke was to be tram- 
pled under foot — no matter whether an 
old or new world was to be regenerated, 
they came mingled and identified with the 
thoughts of freedom, the universal patri- 
mony of every free nation. And often, as 
I have sat surrounded by their works, while 
the godlike page of Plato was open before 
me, or Cicero, unequalled name in Roman 
history, was charming with immortal elo- 
quence, to my roused fancy the bars of the 
tomb have been broken, and the men them- 
selves have come to inspire nobler aspira- 
tions of liberty and virtue ; and I have been 



ready to exclaim in the words of Alcaeus, 
"You are not dead, but live in those Islands 
of the Blest, where Achilles and Diomedes 
have gone before you." 

By Classical Literature I understand 
those remains of the Greek and Roman 
letters which have reached us. It there- 
fore admits of a distinction into these two 
classes. In the remarks which follow, 
though generally applicable to both, refer- 
ence is had more to the Grecian than the 
Roman, as the former is more spirited, ori- 
ginal, and powerful ; the latter rather a con- 
tinuation, a translation, than a fountain of 
its own. They are the golden and the sil- 
ver ages of letters ; where, in the latter the 
mind having reached its greatest perfection 
rather degenerates from its original vigour. 
In the Grecian, in all the highest efforts of 
human genius are found a simplicity, a truth 
to nature, which touch while they astonish; 
in the Roman is more of refinement, more 
of ornament, less of free and bold imagina- 
tions. The Romans contented themselves 
with being the worthy pupils of great mas- 
ters, — they opened not new paths, they as- 
pired not to lead, but followed, giving a 



8 

grace and finish to what was already crea- 
ted. Thus, in the most delightful Roman 
poetry we are ever reminded of the Gre- 
cian, — its finest flights betray the eagle- 
wing of its predecessors, and its greatest 
invention is a new combination of their 
thoughts. But the Grecian poetry is inspi- 
ration itself, it comes directly from nature, 
it is, like the inhabitants of Attica, ct.w$m. 
Its fancies belong to the very soil — there 
they sprung, there they seem most natural; 
there is the birth-place of its mythology, 
and in its scenery, its language, and its fic- 
tions, its guardian deities take their great- 
est delight. 

In Classical Literature we meet with an 
exuberance of fancy. The earth was then 
unappropriated ; and its flowers, fields, the 
beasts of the forest, the works of men, all 
gave a free range for illustration, without 
the danger of being anticipated by an ear- 
lier footstep. The minds of men could 
roam unchecked through the world's vast 
expanse, and whatever was more striking, 
more beautiful, or sweeter, they could cull 
to enrich their stores. Their scenery, natu- 
rally picturesque, was heightened by asso- 



ciations which made it more lovely — their 
fanciful eye could discern new beings to 
pay homage to — and the sublime opinion of 
Thales was almost realized, that the Divi- 
nity was the soul that filled and breathed 
life into the universe. An ethereal power 
was seen to animate every grove ; beautiful 
beings were bid to preside over every gush- 
ing stream, while thoughts more of heaven 
than earth, were whispered to every one, if 
not by his own genius as he too credulously 
imagined, yet by the universal genius of 
nature. Thus while the Grecian was wan- 
dering among the temples which hallowed 
to religion the loveliest spots of earth, or 
yielding homage to the marble images which 
stood like deities in the gardens and fount- 
ains, how could he but feel his fancy teem- 
ing with glorious thoughts, as he gazed upon 
the beautiful before him ? Imagination be- 
came the presiding faculty of his nature — 
all the visions of demi-gods and heroes, 
which it brought to his sight, he felt him- 
self bound to believe — and a sublime pre- 
sence awaited him in the most solitary 
scenes. The voice of diviner spirits was 

9 



10 

floated to his ear from the murmur of 
groves, the sound of cascades, and their 
reality became palpable to his senses, 
breathed in all the freshness and fragrance 
of nature. If a nobler thought — and who 
with such a fancy could have been without 
noble thoughts — chanced to arise, it was to 
the mountain-god that he owed it, or a hun- 
dred nymphs came dancing forth in dewy 
buskins to claim it as theirs. The sense of 
religion, the belief of supernatural pre- 
sence, thus gave a beauty and richness to 
his imagination, which almost seemed the 
actual inspiration of a god. Classical Lite- 
rature becomes thus the very resting-place 
of fancy ; following its delightful creations 
we are almost carried to the very times of 
its belief, — we think ourselves encircled 
with numberless shadowy beings, who have 
earned their immortality by deeds of bene- 
ficence to men. 

Connected with the belief in their gods 
was a multiplicity of fables which conse- 
crated every place with charming recollec- 
tions. Upon this hill the god of their coun- 
try once appeared ; here was born the an- 



11 

cestor of their race, and cradling violets 
arose to shelter him from the hostile eye ; # 
here a mortal nymph wandering became 
the bride of an inhabitant of the skies. 
Their fancy, kindling with such visions, 
clothed every the most common spot with 
romantic imagery ; a supernatural hand was 
to be traced in every occurrence ; and 
throwing themselves back in the fabulous 
ages, they gave a mystic and divine origin 
to their cities, their islands, their customs, 
and themselves. Thebes was walled by 
the magic muse of Amphion — Delos moved 
along the iEgean with its sacred freight to 
escape the pursuit of a jealous deity, or amid 
a golden snow Rhodes slowly emerged from 
the ocean, the patrimony of the father of 
lightt — from the sowing of dragons' teeth 
sprung the warrior-ancestry of a people. 
Thus did fancy throw its delightful veil 
over every object, giving birth to unnum- 
bered traditions and scattering every where 
Elysian flowers. There is this difference 
in the fables of antiquity and those of suc- 

* See the exquisite description in Pindar of the birth of Ia- 
mus. — Olymp. vi. 90. 
t Pind. Olymp. vii. 



12 

eeeding times, that in the latter they mark 
the age of ignorance, and fade with the ad- 
vance of refinement, but in the former they 
were cherished in the most polished eras. 
We all can feel how much our own poetry 
has lost by losing its ideal character, by 
throwing off the sanctity of tradition, and 
confining itself to the descriptions of re- 
ality. The fairies, which once charmed, 
charm no longer — they have receded be- 
fore the ages of knowledge, and the poet is 
precluded from preternatural and legend- 
ary fictions. Taste has lighted her torch 
at the altar of truth, and fanciful illusions 
vanish in her beams. Even Chaucer com- 
plains that the fairies had been in his time 
banished by the monks from the British 
shore, # — and now are daily expiring the 
remnants of the delightful rustic sports of 
England, which received so peculiar an in- 
terest from popular superstitions. Our soil 
never has been touched by fairy-step, the 
beliefs which have marked the infancy of 
other nations have not reached us ; the de- 
lusions of fiction belong not to our country; 
and if we would enjoy them, we must go 

* Wife of Bath's Tale* 



13 

back to the classic ages when the earth was 
alive with hosts of beautiful imaginary be- 
ings, and when fancy, like the evening-star, 
daily rose in the twilight, investing the forms 
of nature with softer radiance. Then the 
scenery never was dead, but it gathered a 
new life from the never-failing smiles of ima- 
gination. Let it not be said that enlightened 
men disbelieved these fictions — they were 
brought so constantly present to every mind 
as to produce the effect of belief. Their 
history was interwoven with them, their 
temples recorded them, and as they looked 
upon the pictured or sculptured representa- 
tions, the models of consummate art, which 
every where at home and abroad sur- 
rounded them — the false-witnesses which 
gave delusion the colour of reality — fancy 
overthrew the cold dominion of reason, and 
for a while they believed them to be true. 
Hence that imaginative spirit which is 
breathed over the whole of Classical Lite- 
rature, giving brilliancy to its poetry, and 
shedding on even its philosophy itself the 
attraction of romance. From the lovely 
clime of Ionia, where nature has tempered 
with her kindest skill the vicissitudes of 



14 

the seasons, seem to have sprung that ex- 
quisite delicacy and purity of taste which 
reign in every class of their productions. 
There first was cut the Ionic capital, the 
grace and pride of architecture, and there 
the Homeric swan first plumed his wings. 
Thence was diffused that "Ionian elegance," 
the proverb for every thing chaste or de- 
lightful in fancy or taste. Whatever nature 
produced of fascinating in objects of sight 
or sound found there admirers and praisers. 
The wild harmony of forests was listened 
to — the beautiful and fragile flowers viewed 
with rapture, from the same taste which 
clothed with imagery their poesy. With 
flowers they strewed the graves of their 
friends, — with flowers they crowned, a most 
grateful offering, the altars of their gods — 
" thy altars," says Callimachus in his hymn 
to Apollo, "bear in spring the flowers which 
the dew-breathing Zephyrs blow on, and in 
winter the sweet crocus," — with these they 
garlanded their hair, and loved to feign a 
renewed and fanciful existence in the form 
of flowers for the care-worn victims of early 
fate. It is thus that their poetry receives a 
fresh perfume from its continual allusions to 



15 

this most delicate offspring of nature. But 
tbey dared, with bolder images, to unite 
with heaven the triumphs of human genius. 
The poet,, they said, was the child of 
Apollo, or of the Muses ; they gave him in 
life a sacred origin, and after death an eter- 
nal existence in the figure of a swan. A 
beautiful thought ! His spirit, clothed in its 
feathered dress, soared proudly to the fount- 
ain of its inspiration, or lingered round the 
scene of its earthly fame, or flew to join the 
poetic choirs which are spreading together 
their immortal pinions. 

But amid these tones of grace and fancy 
the ancient lyre is thrilling with a deeper 
note — a higher power comes to pervade 
the strings, and the spirit of freedom, 
which hallows to the lover of republics, to 
the lover of mankind, Classical Literature, 
breathes inextinguishably through every 
part. The consequence of the study is an 
increased love of free institutions, reflected 
with united effect from the pages of its his- 
torians, orators, and poets. Classical Lite- 
rature is the history of liberty, its strug- 
gles, and its triumphs, — it is the mauso- 
leum, where we see the remains of the 



16 

fathers of the world, bearing one great in- 
scription, — devotion to their country. Our 
memory delights to dwell on the bright an- 
nals of tyrant-hating Athens, of republican 
Rome, the thought of which in after-ages 
has filled the indignant slave with redeem- 
ing energy, and made him feel that he was 
born equal to his fellows. No common 
hand has recorded those glories, no feeble 
intellect is kindling that enthusiasm, but im- 
mortal mind, which could not be quenched 
by ages of darkness, has inscribed them, 
and the living fire of freedom has commu- 
nicated a corresponding glow to the litera- 
ture which celebrates it. Athens, associa- 
ted with the highest powers of intellect, 
becomes doubly dear to us as the practical 
instance how far a free people must be 
lifted above a servile, and exhibits the ge- 
nius of republics crowned with the em- 
blems of prosperity and happiness. It is 
delightful to see one general spirit anima- 
ting a whole country. The various dialects 
of Greece, — Ionian, Dorian, iEolian, Attic, 
have one universal root, and the nations 
which spoke them, differing — contending 
on every other theme, join in the undistin- 



17 

guishing hatred of slavery. When the de- 
legates from Peloponnesus assembled to 
deliberate on the restoration of Hippias, the 
tyrant, to Athens, Sosicles, a Corinthian, 
exclaimed, and the Grecian voices around 
him responded to his, " The heavens shall 
be below the earth, and the earth raised 
above the heavens, and men abide in the 
sea, ere the Lacedaemonians undertake to 
establish tyrannies in the Grecian cities."* 
Sentiments like these break forth from 
every part of their writings, and it has been 
well said that as long as the languages re- 
main, and the writings of Greece and Rome 
are understood, there will be a hope for 
mankind. In them will liberty seek her last 
retreat, and there shall the young scholar, 
warming his thoughts with ancient recollec- 
tions, preserve unexpired a vestal flame of 
republican virtue. There as he dwells on 
the generous devotion to country, on the de- 
struction of homes and temples, and all the 
noble sacrifices of nations who counted every 
thing as dust in comparison with independ- 
ence — he will start as if the ancient patriots 
were around him, and his breast will throb 

* Herod, lib. v. c. 92. 

3 



18 

with the same love of country which kindled 
theirs, and conscious that the occasion is 
alone wanting to equal his fame and virtue 
to theirs, he will, with an enthusiasm almost 
pardonable, wish that the danger may arise, 
that his arm may nerve itself to shield his 
native land. In modern times too often has 
the mercenary pen charged upon republi- 
can governments scenes of turbulence and 
anarchy ; and, showing the deadly effects of 
their party-spirit, urged mankind to take 
shelter in monarchies. But while these 
writings of antiquity remain, in them shall 
be the antidote. There is a record which 
cannot be obliterated ; there are praises 
which will not be forgotten ; there live the 
immortal works of genius associated and 
assimilated with the triumphs of liberty. 
And if the American student, as he laments 
the miserable degeneracy of Greece and 
Rome when enslaved from the glories of 
their freedom, chances to glance his eye 
upon such a passage as this of Herodotus, 
how he prides himself in the thought that 
he too is the citizen of a republic: "The 
Athenians now daily grew in strength ; they 
were freed from their tyrants, and proved, 



19 

what all history proves, that freedom is pros- 
perity; for when oppressed, they scarcely 
coped with their neighbours, but now, when 
free, they were seized with such a thirst for 
honourable fame, that they became the first 
in Greece."* This is the testimony of one 
who was himself the spectator and recorder 
of the blessings of Athenian liberty. Hero- 
dotus, when he praised the republic of 
Athens, praised what he had witnessed, he 
had crowned his brows with the sacred 
olive of Attica, he had sung at the Olympic 
festival, while triumphant applauses re- 
bounded from side to side her patriotic de- 
votion, her glorious victories over Persia's 
myriads. O thou barren and rocky strip of 
Attica, thy name shall be dear to mankind 
while there remains in a single heart a free 
drop of blood; thy name shall ascend in 
paeans from ten thousand varying tongues ; 
Attica, parent of liberty ! Yes, Liberty, thou 
wert cradled on the Attic mount, and thy 
infant lips, like Plato's, were sweetened with 
Hymettian honey. 

As, at the Panathensean game, above the 
steps of thronging citizens, the music of 

* Herod, lib. v. c. 78. 



20 

flutes, and the virgin chorus, was heard dis- 
tinctly to rise the triumphal song, chant- 
ing the memory of Harmodius, or the noble 
daring of Thrasybulus, so from these classic 
pages, amid all the richness of metaphor 
and beauty of thought, we can almost au- 
dibly catch the exhortation from the spirit 
of liberty — Be free ! To the ancient repub- 
licans love of country was a part of their re- 
ligion, and, ere they forgot that country, 
they must forget the images of their fathers 
and the temples of their gods.* Proceeding 
from this enthusiasm for liberty, and this 
ardent love of country, were their almost 
divine speculations concerning those who 
perished to defend it. Such a death seem- 
ed to be a privilege. In the rites of their 
religion, their names arose mingled with 
those of the gods ; they were handed down 
in perpetual remembrance from father to 
son; and Pericles, as he stood over the 
ashes of those who had fallen in battle, de- 

* In illustration of this may be cited these lines of Horace : 
Consenuit socerorum in arvis- 
Sub rege Medo, Marsus et Appulus 
Anciliorum et nominis et togae 
Oblitus, seternaeque Vestae, 
Incoluau Jove et nrbe Roma. 



21 

clared, " That the whole earth was their 
sepulchre, nor were they immortalized only 
by the inscriptions on their monuments, but 
even in a foreign land their unwritten me- 
mory lived forever."* Extravagant as such 
expressions seem, they have been verified : 
climes then unthought of are interested in 
their fame ; and, if in the course of so many 
ages, their names have been lost, yet their 
honour lives fresh in their country's memo- 
rials, and finds a sympathy in every free 
breast. They died not for Athens only, but 
for the world ; and the world, grateful for 
their lessons of patriotism, never hears the 
name of their birth-place, but it is reminded 
of its glorious ktovo^ioc. The sounds of pa- 
triotism come well from the lips of those 
whose arms had been raised in its service, 
and almost all the eminent men in the gold- 
en days of Greece had been soldiers for 
their country. Poets, orators, philosophers, 
and historians, having braved danger for its 
sake, had a right to partake in, and to cele- 
brate its glory.t 

* Thucydides, lib. ii. c. 43. 

■t iEschylus, Alcaeus, Demosthenes, Socrates, Plato, Thucydides, 
Xenophon, &c. 



22 

There is one trait which proudly distin- 
guishes the better periods of Grecian lite- 
rature from the Roman and from modern 
authors, that, seeking for no other patron- 
age than that of a great and enlightened 
people, it is unmixed with the false praises 
of patron-monarchs, which make us blush 
for human genius. The praises thus be- 
stowed, are blots which disfigure the other- 
wise pure pages of Virgil and Horace. 
With what weariness and disgust do we 
turn from those parts of Ariosto, where the 
payment of the price of patronage extorts 
from him laboured panegyrics on the scions, 
past, present, and to come, of the house of 
Este. In wandering through these obscure 
lists, the wings of his genius lose their vi- 
gour, and sink powerless to the ground. 
When Tasso, too, stoops to flatter the petty 
tyrants who could not understand his me- 
lancholy temperament, we give him a fresh 
pity, and execrate the more the unworthy 
objects he commends. From Boileau's 
pensioned praise, from Dryden's extrava- 
gant and almost alms-begging flattery, from 
the courtly strains of Waller, from the cum- 
brous adulation of Bacon, heu miserande t 



23 

we are humiliated to find the first minds of 
our race capable of such degradation. But 
while filled with this mournful view, we are 
beginning to lower our estimate of man- 
kind ; if, then, we come back to the volumes 
of Grecian lore, we breath a purer air; we 
return, as iEneas, from Stygian darkness to 
some bright plain, where the soil is spread 
with uncontaminated flowers, and we de- 
lightfully linger on spirited strains, where 
the truth is the greatest flattery to a free 
nation. Pindar himself, while composing 
odes which celebrate the victories of 
princes and nobles, passes hastily over their 
honours, to dwell upon the fables of the 
gods and heroes, founders of free states, and 
games where Greeks alone had the privi- 
lege of contending. It was these very 
games which nursed this national and patri- 
otic spirit. They there learnt to be proud 
of the name of Greek, when at Olympia, a 
king of Macedonia was excluded from the 
contest, till he had proved a Grecian de- 
scent ; his antagonists, when he entered the 
stadium, objected that the race belonged to 
Greeks, not to barbarians, but the monarch 
vindicated his title to the honoured name 



24 

by his Argive ancestry.* Yet there the as- 
sembled crowd from every corner and re- 
gion of Greece, when Themistocles, a citi- 
zen of Athens, entered the theatre, rose in 
a body from their seats to salute him.t 

Of men who thus knew to value their 
own country and its most eminent sons, it 
was the ambition of the greatest genius to 
merit the applause. He needed not, to in- 
cite him, the splendid slavery of a mo- 
narch's patronage, but where a free and 
generous people were assembled round 
their games, — the games in which talent 
and skill were their own reward, and the 
simple crown of olive or laurel weighed 
down the gemmed diadem, — he brought the 
productions of his genius. To them he re- 
peated the praises of heroic states, the de- 
votion of patriots, the beneficence of the 
gods, certain that their Grecian taste, un- 
purchased and just, would give the meed 
where it was due ; and felt himself more 
than paid, when the thundering acclama- 
tions of thousands and thousands rising up- 
wards carried his name and glory to the 
skies. And think you not that such a hope 

* Herod, lib. v. g. 22. t Plut. in Vit. Themist. 



25 

would give bolder inspiration to his fancy, 
and can you wonder that his powers should 
be elevated and invigorated when they had 
in prospect rewards like these ? We may 
well conceive in such a scene, how a de- 
lightful yet almost despairing emulation 
must have drawn tears from the youthful 
eye, as it did from Thucydides at the Olym- 
pic games, when Herodotus recited his Mu- 
ses. When we see the general assemblies 
of a nation, owning one kindred name, 
though divided into numerous distinct peo- 
ples, thus made the scenes of literary con- 
test ; when we see their taste in poetry and 
every branch of polished art appealed to 
by the greatest of mankind as the test of 
merit, do we not, ought we not to, feel a 
sentiment of shame at the total absence of 
such great festivals with us ; and must we 
not acknowledge, that the scholar, whose 
breast swells with noble enthusiasm at the 
recollections and memorials of such a peo- 
ple, and with a desire to spread the know- 
ledge and love of them in his own country, 
has a just cause for his emotions, and de- 
serves well of that country ? There, where- 
ever he looks, he sees a people taking a 

i 



26 

pride in their monuments of genius ; he be- 
holds the greatest of its poets, not only 
claimed as a citizen by numerous cities as 
their highest distinction, but actually dei- 
fied by some ; he sees that the ode of ano- 
ther, which celebrated the origin of Rhodes, 
was inscribed in golden characters in the 
temple of one of its cities ; he sees the 
power of the lyric melody of Tyrtaeus to 
inspirit the faded courage of the Spartans ; 
and the verses of Euripides so honoured as 
to save the lives of his captive fellow-citi- 
zens from an exasperated foe : how, with 
these and other numberless instances of 
honours paid to literature and art, how can 
he but recur to the remembrance of such 
a nation, illustrated by such men, endued 
with such a refined taste, as the model of 
every thing glorious and inspiring in the 
history of freedom. Go then to those en- 
chanting pages, dip your throbbing pulse 
at its fount, in the pure stream of new-born 
liberty ; and let fancy, as it carries you to 
the clime where every mountain and every 
river have something to charm, as perhaps 
it treads with you at the pass of Thermo- 
pylae, or tracks on the Trojan plain in the 



27 

twilight the great footstep of Achilles, or 
winds with the Peneus through the Thessa- 
lian Tempe, but wake in you a deeper feel- 
ing for lovely nature, for patriotic zeal, here 
in this congenial land of equal laws: let 
every sight and every sound, as they bring 
before your mind spots and themes glorified 
in classic story, but produce in you a holier 
ardour for the cause of liberty, an universal 
love for mankind ; and as you roam a de- 
lighted visitant to those gardens of flowers 
and fruits most sw r eet and valuable, bring 
back from them the same exquisite sensibi- 
lity to the beautiful in creation, together 
with the same taste for all that is noble or 
excellent in genius and art. 

There is something elevating to the mind 
in the study of the literature of the ancients; 
there is a sort of just pride in their works, in 
their national renown, which raises our opin- 
ion of mankind. A different race lived then, 
if we are to judge from the superior gran- 
deur and magnitude of their public edifi- 
ces, the splendour of their amusements, the 
perfection to which they brought every art. 
There is a pleasure in beholding their ge- 
nerous pride in being the citizens of their 



28 

states, springing from the consciousness of 
the advantages they enjoyed. Our minds 
are filled with to piya ovopot, A0*jva>v, # and we 
can sympathize in the glory due to the 
smallest member of such a country. It was 
a high privilege to call themselves by the 
then valued name of Greek or Roman, as 
the possession of it seemed to constitute a 
distinct class, a higher order of men than 
the rest of the world. There the arts, 
whether of peace or war, whether of use 
or ornament, grew and flourished ; there 
literature spread, softening their manners 
and refining their taste; and the citizen, 
looking upon these advantages, learned to 
value his country, and himself as belonging 
to it. Around its limits a barrier of gloom 
appeared to rise, separating it from the land 
of the barbarian ; and glorying in his free- 
dom and his civilization, he considered him- 
self, a simple citizen, entitled to a higher 
rank than the kings of other countries. 
Wherever he trod, the greatest specimens 
of human genius met his view. If entering 
the splendid temple, where its lengthening 
colonnade of Parian marble lifted its airy 

* Thucyd. lib. vii. c. 64. 



29 

capitals, he turned to worship the parent- 
deity of his race; the perfect statue, almost 
clothed in immortal glory, seemed to de- 
mand his homage. Or if amusement drew 
his steps to the crowded theatre, to ask his 
applause the rival geniuses of Sophocles 
and Euripides produced their master-pieces, 
confiding to his taste and judgment the dis- 
crimination of their numerous beauties. 
How, then, with all this, with the praises of 
liberty ringing in his ears, its influence per- 
vading every thing around him, and the 
images of his country's preservers standing 
with their crowned honours to greet him — 
how can we wonder that the ancient repub- 
lican should think he walked in a brighter 
path than other mortals, and how can we 
be surprised at the elevation of soul, which 
made him esteem his native land far the 
fairest and first of earth ? 

Nor is this elevation confined to their po- 
litics, but it is communicated likewise to 
their literature. Hence the fictions, before 
alluded to, of the celestial origin of the 
more eminent mind, as if it required a divi- 
ner spark to kindle the soul of true genius ; 
and hence that boast we so often meet with 



30 

of the immortality of their writings. They 
feared not the critic's rebuke, but boldly 
declared, that these the winter shower or 
the ocean wind had not power to injure. 
In the works of moderns such a prediction 
has the air of presumption ; but in the an- 
cient, we consider it as a truth which time 
has realized; as something due to their 
merit, and only the allowable boast of con- 
scious genius. This immortality they claim- 
ed not as a contingency, but a certainty, as 
if they had had a prophetic spirit that they 
must survive to obscure the efforts of mo- 
dern emulation. They knew that they pos- 
sessed a power of self-preservation, so as 
amid the accidents of time, and all the ne- 
glect of barbarous ages, to keep them safe 
for us ; that they were the remembrancers 
of a superior race, and must descend to 
distant ages at once exhibiting what men in 
former days have acted and thought, and 
inducing the despair that others ever will 
in the future arise to equal them. 

And here, while considering the tendency 
of Classical Letters to raise the soul to no- 
bler conceptions, I must not omit the sub- 
lime, though often erring, meditations of the 



31 

philosophers of old ; and, least of all, the 
mention of the favourite sect of every judg- 
ing scholar, the sect of Zeno, Seneca, and 
Epictetus, — the Stoics. Prejudice and mis- 
representation have combined to condemn 
their opinions ; but their brightness breaks 
forth through every cloud, and sheds a lof- 
tier light upon ancient philosophy. Even 
the Christian, rising, as he does, warmed 
and touched with a purer belief, cannot 
but look with admiration upon the proud, 
the almost superhuman conceptions, which 
gave grandeur to error itself. And indeed 
if ever the soul can be drawn from self, and 
fitted for higher objects, it must be when 
assisted by such speculations as place earth 
and its ambitions, its passions, and its hopes, 
below the steady glance of wisdom. The 
Stoic taught himself to consider man formed 
not to enjoy the world, but to contemn, and 
in contemning conquer, every feeling un- 
worthy of a purely intellectual being. And 
as his thoughts were fixing on these high 
subjects, did care or sorrow come to dis- 
tract him, he opposed to its entrance the 
eternal barrier of an unconquerable soul. 
And death, — where could death find cause 



32 

of dread to him, who looked with equal 
eye on the decrees of fate ; if to live, re- 
solved to live for virtue, if to die, to die 
without repining. And threats, could they 
move, or torture terrify him, who forgave 
not himself, if his flesh shrunk at pain, or 
his cheek was blanched at danger? But 
to every thing justly and intrinsically good 
he looked to guide him ; virtue, virtue was 
his goal, and while the worldling was lost 
in ambition, his secret aspirations, his open 
doctrines framed themselves to the pursuit 
and acquirement of virtue. And deem you 
an earthly pattern was before him, — no, to 
the perfections of divinity he raised his 
mind, and proudly scorned every attribute 
which savoured not of heaven. By such a 
life he secured to himself happiness on 
earth, and he went to the grave confident 
that it would be rewarded hereafter. Yet 
he pursued not virtue for its reward, but 
because it was the only beautiful and good. 
Thus the Portico became the nurse of the 
true citizen, the intrepid freeman, whose 
private feelings merged in the general weal, 
and who disdained every action which was 
not based on the justest motives. A devout 



33 

sect they cannot be called, — there was too 
much of haughtiness, of self-confidence in 
their opinions ; but if to hold in contempt 
the pleasures of the world, and whatever in- 
terests mere ordinary men — to crush every 
selfish and ignoble passion — to be assimi- 
lated, as far as man can, with superior 
beings — are calculated to make us wiser 
and better, they were pre-eminently so. 
Demetrius, a celebrated Stoic, used to say, 
" That he complained of the immortal gods, 
that they did not beforehand signify to him 
their will ; then, should they doom aught of 
calamity, should they require his fortune, his 
children, or his life, he might himself be 
the first to offer each and all to meet their 
decrees, and not, as now, content himself 
merely with following them." # Is there 
not a sublimity in sentiments like these to 
transport us to a brighter sphere, the rest- 
ing-place of some nobler race, where Wis- 
dom sits enthroned, and smiles upon the 
immortal train around her ? 

We cannot wonder, then, that this sect 
should be the glory of the scholar, and fill 

* Seneca de Prov. c. 5. 

5 



34 

his mind with elevated contemplations. Dr. 
Warton very justly rebukes Pope for joining 
in the common-place censure of the Stoics, 
which ignorance has so often repeated, and 
cites an admirable defence of their tenets 
by Mr. Harris.* Montesquieu, Gibbon, Ro- 
bertson, have recorded their high admira- 
tion of them; and though the Portico can- 
not pretend to the piety, softness, and tem- 
pering mercy of Christianity, still it is the 
perfection of natural religion. 

But there is a stronger feeling connected 
with Classical studies, which enables us at 
once to account for the deep interest which 
they have awakened, and to show how be- 
neficially they have acted on mankind. Be- 
fore us are spread the treasures bequeathed 
to us by the greatest of our race, which have 
survived not their authors only, but even 
their countries and tongues, and which time, 
sparing nought, has still stayed his hands 
from injuring. The remnants of a mighty 
empire lie around us, not of its works of 
art, but of its works of mind, which contain 
the examples of the past, and the warning 

* Essay on Pope, Vol. ii. p. 82. 



35 

voice for us to profit by. When we read 
the eminent writers of our own language, 
we are proud of them, and take to our- 
selves, because we use the same tongue, a 
portion of their glory : they ask and they re- 
ceive our sympathy, as our countrymen and 
brothers. But of these — orphan-children 
of mighty ancestors — where is the country 
to sympathize, where is the language to 
laud, where are the descendants to che- 
rish ? Gone, — or worse than gone, so de- 
generated, that their free ancestors would 
spurn to acknowledge them. Their kin- 
dred has perished, and the very knowledge 
that such nations ever existed would have 
perished too, if their memory had not been 
piously embalmed and honoured in the re- 
lics of their literature. How powerful were 
those nations in their season of prosperity ; 
with what conscious pride did their authors 
anticipate an increasing honour from their 
descendants, from being able to claim such 
a citizenship. But the nations are no more, 
and there exist none to take an interest in 
them, none to shield them from calumny; 
they have no hope but from intrinsic merit. 



36 

They are like those insulated beings, who 
have survived every tie which binds them 
to the earth. But they have thus become 
the property of the world, the repositories 
where are safely stored free principles, true 
patriotism, and pure taste, to give light to 
barbarism, and to preserve civilization from 
retrograding. We therefore look upon them 
with reverence, as the parents of all that is 
excellent and happy in our institutions, and 
with melancholy, that what they record has 
now its sole existence in their remembran- 
ces. And amidst these memorials of such 
a waste, we must indeed be cold, if there 
do not arise some mournful thoughts at the 
fate which has wrapped their parent-lands. 
The country, which was once so conquered 
by the enthusiasm of the free orator, hears 
no more the language which was its boast, 
the pure dialect survives, but not on the 
lips of its inhabitants — it survives in that 
very eloquence, which has made modern 
times excuse the extravagance of ancient 
fable, by beholding with what materials it 
was enabled to work — it survives in poetry, 
in history, — but in poetry, in history alone. 



37 

Never more shall the bema be trodden by 
a Demosthenes, never more shall the true 
Attic, pouring forth from the commonest 
mouth, prove the universality of Athenian 
refinement ; nor, if we turn to the rival na- 
tion, shall those seven hills glitter again 
with the magnificent ornaments of freedom, 
or echo the step of the Roman citizen 
greater than kings. These thoughts arise 
at once in our minds, and give a sacred 
interest to the volumes we are perusing. 
They alone are the temples of their gods ; 
for their religion has faded, its fanes are no 
longer warmed with offered victims, and 
another creed has usurped its few remain- 
ing shrines ; they too are alone the monu- 
ments of the illustrious great of ancient 
times, for their country, language, and vir- 
tues have departed, and their fame has 
rested alone upon the preservation of these 
few and perishable memorials. Is it not 
melancholy to consider that these models 
of genius, these founders of modern litera- 
ture and refinement, have depended for 
their existence upon the capricious care of 
men who knew not their value, which a few 



38 

more ages of neglect might have swept to 
oblivion ? It is this feeling of sorrow which 
has thrown round them such a fascination, 
that to the youthful mind accustomed to 
contemplate them, neither the power of 
fashion, the witching smile of beauty, nor 
the ardour of passion have been able to 
divert it. They have for him the same sa- 
cred charm as the ashes of those he loves ; 
and, while he is perusing the memorials of 
the mighty spirits of old,, time flies un- 
heeded, and every thought devotes itself to 
them. It is this circumstance which has 
operated unfavourably on Classical studies ; 
they have tended too much, when long in- 
dulged, to isolate the scholar from the rest 
of the world, and to engross him entirely 
with these delightful pursuits. He has 
turned from the common-places of society 
with a heightened relish to a library stored 
with his loved companions, and has at every 
fresh mingling with the world derived but a 
stronger taste for such indulgence. There 
indeed he found few to sympathize in his 
inclinations — the business of the day ex- 
cludes from the worldly mind the thought 



39 

of, or care for, the records of long-past ge- 
nius, and he shrunk, with the modesty natu- 
ral to the scholar, from contemptuous or 
overbearing pride. With what a freshened 
love has he then had recourse, to sooth 
his chafed spirits, to these his unchanging 
friends ; with how much alacrity has he 
rushed to lose himself in Grecian or Ro- 
man story, or in the divine illusions of an- 
cient poetry or philosophy, till his mind 
has recovered its tone, and he has become 
once more self-satisfied. He has thus learnt 
too much to estrange himself from inter- 
course with the world, and Classical attain- 
ments are thus most frequently found in the 
cell of the university, or the shades of lite- 
rary retirement. It is not that they require 
more study than other pursuits, — the pro- 
fessional man is in his art as deeply read, 
and has as maturely reflected ; but his sub- 
jects have drawn him more into human 
commerce, and the free interchange of 
thought has corrected his own prejudices 
equally with those of others. But the field 
of the scholar lies exclusively at home. 
His shelves contain the precepts of his art, 



40 

and the reward of his toils ; to their con- 
tents he looks for applause, and gaining it 
he is indifferent to that of the world. His 
learning seldom comes forth into public no- 
tice, except in that exclusive way, which 
seems to claim attention from none but 
those engaged in similar studies. But in 
return, if the devotion to Classical pursuits 
has confined their admirer too much to his 
library, and thus rendered him deficient in 
the courtly graces, which distinguish and 
recommend other men of letters, they have 
rescued many a youth from dissipation, and 
given him a purer taste for the charms of 
literature. Virtue often retires from crowds 
and public places to clothe these relics 
with stronger power. And where could 
she seek a more congenial home, than pa- 
ges rich with the eloquence of Plato, or the 
half-inspired wisdom of Socrates ? And if 
indeed her chosen temple be the moulder- 
ing ruins of a nation's works, whence her 
influence arises teaching the most thought- 
less to tread with reverence ; must we not 
think that there is her more peculiar shrine 
where the monuments of human genius, in 



41 

their original perfection, spread themselves 
open to tell to man, how vain is power, mili- 
tary, political, or intellectual, to give stabi- 
lity to empire, — to tell him not to presume 
to pray for his own country an immortal 
existence, but such a course of honourable 
conduct, as that when its language and in- 
habitants shall equally have departed, its 
history, its literature, and its public virtue, 
may shed an eternal twilight around its 
sun-set glories. 

Little does he, who floats on the un- 
steady tide of fashion or dissipation, know 
of the charms of Classical studies. He 
pictures them forth as the seat of gloomy 
and misanthropic thoughts, where a monk- 
ish ignorance of the pleasures of the world 
fixes the neglected or disappointed scholar. 
Or perhaps proud of the petty distinction 
which awaits him in the gay circle, he 
smiles upon him with contempt as a book- 
worm, who has not the spirit, not the soul 
to enjoy the charms of life. Not the soul! 
When the scholar has retired to the sanctu- 
ary, where are entombed the sacred dead, 
think you that his meditations are likewise 
6 



42 

dead ? Oh ! no, every beautiful and virtu- 
ous thought takes a new wing, here the 
mind new plumes her faculties, and starts 
forth for higher discoveries, and his soul, 
expatiating on the great expanse of vanish- 
ed years, gathers from every one its lesson 
of morality or wisdom. For amid all the 
ages which pass in review before him, there 
is not a year which does not bring some 
food for holy meditation, — and not an event 
which is treasured in these volumes, that 
does not present something of example to 
guide him. Not the soul ! From that study, 
where mind alone surviving teaches how 
truly dust is every thing material and sen- 
sual, he views a world engaged in the short- 
lived trophies of earthly ambition, or worse, 
in miserable dissipation, — but upon him 
shines a brighter star, those volumes scat- 
ter out a purer light, and vice is revealed 
in her deformity, — but mind, mind triumphs 
— and the short record of it, which may be 
compressed in a square inch of paper, has 
come to his hands, when an Atlantis has 
been engulfed, when the pyramids have 
trembled to their bases, and cities — were 



43 

they not called eternal ? — have been rooted 
from their foundations. 

Condemn not then as useless the attach- 
ment to Classical studies, nor be willing to 
reject that which has been the guide and 
the solace of the most powerful intellects. 
Among its admirers may be numbered the 
greatest names in modern letters. The poet 
has recurred to it for his most agreeable al- 
lusions, the statesman for his best examples, 
the orator for his most inspiring themes, 
while the man of literary taste has never 
tired of repeating its praises and dwelling 
upon its glowing fancies. Scaliger declared 
that he would rather be the author of two 
odes of Horace, than king of Spain. The 
scholar in his retirement, as he broods over 
them, finds his mind enlarged, his taste re- 
fined, and his patriotism strengthened. He 
shines with a borrowed lustre ; we wonder 
at the elevation of his genius, and the fine 
flights of fancy, but they are not his own, — 
no, he has caught them from immortal pa- 
ges, and an enthusiasm enlightened and ge- 
nerous spreads over his style such an elo- 
quence, that the dullest is kindled by it. 



44 

His noble thoughts he claims for himself, — 
but believe him not ; he has been consult- 
ing greater and more enduring geniuses, — 
he comes from the company of the highly- 
gifted minds, and whatever is striking and 
beautiful they have communicated. Visions 
of every thing great and good stand before 
him, and the spirit which brightens their 
pages hovers around him like the daemon 
of Socrates, giving peace to his heart, 
richness to his images, and delicacy to 
his fancy. 



S»1TOM 11* 



In considering the influence which the 
Revival of Classical Letters has exercised 
upon the literature, the arts, and the modes 
of thinking of Europe, to which I designed 
to devote this lecture, there arise so many 
various and striking results, that a full ex- 
amination of them would far exceed its 
limits. The era of their revival is prolific 
in improvements. Law, every branch of 
industry, politics, the fine arts, date their 
advance from it, and it would be no trivial 
discussion to ascertain how much is owing 
by each to Classical Literature. But it is 
necessary to circumscribe the circle of in- 
quiry to a few of the parts, instead of en- 
deavouring to embrace the whole. 



46 

The most obvious of these results are the 
refinement of taste, and the improvement 
of literature. Omitting for the present the 
more prominent topics, I would wish, though 
at the risk of tediousness, to turn aside to 
one, which, if less inviting, is certainly cu- 
rious, the influence of this revival upon 
scholarship. How is it, that among the 
men most conversant with Classic studies, 
and therefore best fitted to apply to the 
perfecting of their native literature, the 
true taste, the judicious precepts, the beau- 
tiful examples, which there abound, the vo- 
taries of Greek and Roman Letters have 
confined themselves to the dullest part of 
criticism, losing in the contemplation of 
words the strength and fire of consummate 
genius ? We may well believe, that if the 
spirits of the most eminent writers in an- 
cient times could have new-embodied them- 
selves, and visibly appeared to some of 
their commentators, they would have be- 
sought them to spare the toilsome labour 
of giving insipidity to their fancies, diluting 
their best thoughts by endless disquisitions, 
and barbarously mutilating the noblest pro- 
ductions for the sake of their own petty 



47 

inventions. It is difficult to view without 
astonishment men degrading the finest ta- 
lents in unimportant disputes, placing their 
chief merit in an ohscure quotation, or 
chanting paeans for a happy conjecture. 
This class of scholars owes its existence 
entirely to Classic Letters, and it may not 
be unprofitable to trace their origin and 
influence on literature. 

Greece was early distinguished by the 
rise of a set of men, who, under the name 
of grammarians, opened regular schools for 
the illustration of the distinguished authors 
of their country. These schools, which 
often acquired great celebrity, were filled 
with pupils, whose exercise it was to write 
complete commentaries on any given au- 
thor. These commentaries were hence 
called scholia, and the writers received 
the name of scholiasts. In these scholia, 
acuteness and ingenuity were exerted ra- 
ther than taste, though the higher order of 
grammarians often exhibited a cultivated 
discrimination and judgment. But in ge- 
neral they were much more addicted to the 
less elevated parts of criticism. Some of 
them became highly eminent, and main- 



48 

tained a perfect despotism in the repub- 
lic of letters. They flourished most after 
Greece had lost its liberty. Their minds, 
no longer lifted by the excitements of free 
institutions, turned their natural acuteness 
to safer though less noble studies, and as 
their country exhibited no new glories to 
require the inspiring themes of poetry, they 
were satisfied with elucidating and dwelling 
upon the works, which were the remem- 
brancers of former trophies. Around the 
court of the Ptolemies, where a lesser con- 
stellation was shining, and the Pleiades, as 
seven of its poets were then called, were 
shedding a more mellowed light, a famous 
band of grammarians arose to give a new 
lustre to study. At the head of this school 
was Aristarchus, the greatest name in gram- 
marian learning, and saluted by the voice 
of posterity as the first of critics. At his 
nod a ready crowd of worshipping follow- 
ers awaited, sealing with an irrevocable 
doom the unhappy author whose polish did 
not reach to the required perfection. Upon 
every line of Homer he sat in judgment, 
drawing the dreadful obelos (in which prac- 
tice he has been but too well imitated by 



49 

bis modern successors) through whatever 
displeased his imperial will, and condemn- 
ing it to eternal exile. He pretended that 
his taste was alone sufficient to separate 
the genuine from the false, and relying 
upon this guide he threw away this book — 
he obliterated this verse, or rooted from its 
established place an offending word. But 
from time immemorial they had been consi- 
dered as Homer's, and where was the testi- 
mony he adduced against their authority ? 
None, but his judgment — and that judgment 
was taught to counterbalance all the pre- 
scription of 500 years. It was approved, 
his fiat was ratified by a host of obedient 
and owroff t<poc pupils of the eminent leader. 
Thus we see in the prince of the gramma- 
rians the same qualities, which afterwards 
characterized the scholars who devoted 
themselves to the illustration of the Clas- 
sics ; the same arbitrary temper, the same 
blind opinion of his own skill, and the same 
disposition to rely entirely on his own judg- 
ment. Yet of the laborious learning, the de- 
votion to study, of Aristarchus and his at- 
tending tribe, we should not be forgetful. 
Still, to him I am often disposed, excuse an 
7 



5(3 

unexercised judgment upon a point which 
has employed the greatest scholars, to attri- 
bute the controversy of the authenticity of 
the poems of Homer, which a German Aris- 
tarchus has so ably revived. Doubts cast 
upon the genuineness of parts have been 
naturally transferred to the whole. From 
him certainly has flowed the unmerciful 
privilege, most unmercifully exercised by 
modern critics, of mutilating at their fancy 
the author who is exposed to their dissec- 
tions, so that the poor ancient would hardly 
recognise his own productions. 

The grammarians filled the pages of the 
books they possessed with their learned 
glosses, interpreting to please themselves or 
their masters, or for the instruction of others 
the doubtful passages. They thus formed a 
regularly organized corps, accomplished in 
every branch of recondite learning, versed 
in all the turns and varieties of their uncer- 
tain mythology, and eager to signalize their 
Grecian subtlety, but unfortunately too apt 
to waste them all in verbal pedantry, in 
seeking out unintended allegories and cu- 
rious meanings, rather than in analyzing 
the beauties of thought or style. Various 



51 

readings were their passion, and to show 
off an immense but unwieldy learning upon 
indifferent matters their ambition ; but as 
for striking fancies, poetical inspirations, or 
delicate imagery, they had no joy in them. 
To explain, and in that explanation to puz- 
zle out a dozen interpretations of a pas- 
sage, obvious at first sight, was their aim, 
and their education was well adapted to 
assist them. For if the pupil came to com- 
ment upon a poet on whom various com- 
mentaries, previously made, lay before him, 
how could he distinguish himself, how dis- 
play his favourite subtlety, if not by adding 
to the store of scholia a new interpretation, 
however improbable ? And what could be 
more calculated to deaden in him every 
rising taste, than to set him to sift uncertain 
words and phrases to discover in them some 
unthought of meaning ? In such an exami- 
nation the godlike charms of poetry evapo- 
rate, while the dull grammarian is weighing 
every line with tedious accuracy. What 
a disgust to the tasteful scholar, when in 
the full glow of a passage of Pindar he is 
hurried rapidly along the tide of song, if 
perchance some doubtful word breaks the 



52 

enchantment, and forces him to turn for ex- 
planation to the scholiast, to find indeed the 
meaning there — but no answering fire — no 
sympathizing fancies — no rapturous excla- 
mations at the power of poetry. The gram- 
marian never lifts himself above the earth, 
but levels every thing in meagre and unsa- 
tisfying criticism, while the brilliant thought 
passes him unheeded. These men (let me 
not call them pedants, for with all their 
faults our learning is greatly indebted to 
them) seem not to have imagined that there 
was any other object in commenting on an 
author, than, like the connoisseur sandal- 
maker of Athens whose eye rested on the 
slipper of the Venus of Apelles, to examine 
the outward part, the words which enve- 
lope his thoughts. But the magic spirit, 
which wakes the inspired chords of lyric 
harmony, neither elevates nor animates 
their notes — but dully they linger on the 
material part, while the soul of song es- 
capes their grosser touch. These scholi- 
asts, flourishing as they did in Greek and 
Roman times, "survived the destruction of 
letters, and kept up at Constantinople a 
continued succession of learned men, al- 



53 

most solely bent on the illustration of the 
works of others. Their feeble empire of- 
fered no triumphs to commemorate, and 
their servile minds, still boasting the pro- 
verbial acuteness of their glorious ances- 
tors, were content in bestowing it on the 
interpretation of their works. At length 
this empire was overthrown, and these 
learned Greeks were obliged to transplant 
to a foreign soil their language and their 
literary habits. The business of the scho- 
liast was dignified by being sustained by 
these restorers of Grecian learning, and 
they gave an apology, or rather a stimulus, 
to the Italian scholar, to contribute in a 
like degree to the letters of the world, by 
employing himself in a similar way. The 
adoration — and were they not excusable in 
their adoration — of these venerable relics, 
which became the root of every scion of 
modern improvement, made the scholar 
consider nothing as beneath him which 
tended to elucidate them, and place more 
glory in ably commenting on them, than in 
plucking the greenest laurels in modern 
letters. Another cause may have operated 
in producing the laborious commentator. 



54 

who has by modern wit been severely, and 
not always justly, ridiculed. In the revival 
of Classic learning, many men of deep edu- 
cation, who had almost from infancy been 
taught to consider a Greek or Latin author 
as one of a superior class of human minds, 
soon became conscious of the total inade- 
quacy of their own powers by original 
works to rival these splendid models. 
They therefore had recourse to a less dif- 
ficult task, in which the manner and ex- 
tent of their instruction soon enabled them 
to excel, of taking advantage of the great 
reputation attached to erudition, by filling 
those authors with learned explanations. 
They thus at the same time devoted their 
industry and knowledge to less hazardous 
experiments, and entitled themselves to the 
gratitude of the world, adorning at once 
and supported by the pillars of their fame. 
But the learning they acquired they knew 
not properly to digest — if it was ancient, if 
it was the result of severe and closeted 
study, it was equally as estimable in their 
eyes, whether it treated of the sublime con- 
ceptions of the Platonic philosophy, or of 
the crown and garlands which freshened 



55 

and perfumed the feasts of antiquity — the 
source and not the quality formed its value. 
Controversies were waged between these 
scholars, not concerning the interesting 
questions of the knowledge and religion of 
the ancients, but upon the establishment of 
this or that sentence, the excellence of this 
manuscript, the genuineness of an unim- 
portant work. Their object was more to 
display their own learning than to add new 
lights to others, and words frequently en- 
grossed a greater attention than ideas. The 
Italians were the first to revive this faded 
grammarian school, but when the novelty 
of Classical studies wore off, their enthusi- 
asm went with it, and the duller but more 
deep and solid minds of the German scho- 
lars were attracted, and were soon, delight- 
edly to themselves, and admiringly by the 
great body of the learned world, invol- 
ved in the inextricable labyrinth of verbal 
interpretation and correction. Although 
the Germans certainly deserve the laurel, 
if there be one, for pre-eminence in this 
part of study, and the larger portion of best 
editions of Classical authors (by which are 
meant those editions which contain one 



56 

hundred words of comment to one word of 
text) has proceeded from the German press, 
England has not been without her full 
share of these critics. She has produced 
two most perfect specimens of the lower 
and higher orders of modern grammarians, 
Joshua Barries and Richard Bentley. 

Barnes possessed all the industry of his 
predecessors ; manuscripts without number 
were scattered in his study, while he almost 
yearly presented the world with specimens 
of his various literary experiments. No re- 
gion of letters he left unvisited, but it was 
his acquaintance with the Greek language, 
in which he placed his greatest glory. Ho- 
mer especially was the object of his adora- 
tion : his earliest desire, and it was con- 
tinued through a laborious life of study, 
was to leave behind him a perfect edition 
of his works. To illustrate this master- 
poet forty years of his life were dedicated, 
and though poor, and dependant on a sa- 
lary, as Greek Professor, of forty pounds a 
year, he contrived to spend on this single 
edition 1000 pounds. It is indeed a splen- 
did book, and filled with the exhaustless re- 
search of its author, but, like the scholiasts 



57 

whom he imitated, it is the various read- 
ings, the differing interpretations, which 
occupy his notes, while the sublimity, the 
imagination, and beauty of his bard fade 
from before his sight. Writing and speak- 
ing Greek with as much facility as English, 
yet he was pronounced by the true critic to 
have no knowledge of the language. But I 
willingly pass from Barnes to the pride of 
English scholars, Dr. Bentley. 

Dr. Bentley possessed all the learning of 
Barnes, but ridiculed the knowledge which 
was confined to words, and declared the 
skill of Barnes in Greek to amount to no 
more than that of an Athenian blacksmith, 
while his own researches, guided equally 
by taste and the ambition of learning, car- 
ried him to every part and corner of an- 
cient literature. A Pythagorean, observing 
his acuteness, the true grammarian quality, 
and his superior mind, would have thought 
him endowed with the very spirit of Aris- 
tarchus, from his reckless corrections, and 
his dogmatical obliterations. He seemed 
to look upon the models of ancient taste as 
set before him merely for the display of 
ingenuity, and, where he could exercise 
8 



58 

this, he was indifferent to all the opinions 
and all the authority of critics and manu- 
scripts. Yet he was notwithstanding a man 
of admirable talents, which would have 
made him eminent in whatever branch of 
literature he had chosen to attempt. He has 
left some lines of English poetry, which, 
though they prove the vigour of his under- 
standing rather than his fancy, are eviden- 
ces of the excellence, which, if he had thus 
bent his mind, he might have attained. But 
it was to Classical Letters that he turned 
as to the most congenial, though perhaps 
less useful study. A wide field was there 
before him, and buried in the learned re- 
cesses of Trinity College at Cambridge, 
like another Aristarchus, he issued his de- 
crees, while the admiring pedant idolized 
the man who graced with such talents 
his dull profession; and the true scholar, 
grieved yet gratified, lamented the stern- 
ness and dogmatism of his character, though 
he could not help being grateful for the 
information which he had so amply stored 
for the benefit of the lettered world. Poets 
and satirists soon took hold of the foibles 
which the rashness and self-sufficiency of 



59 

this great man were continually unveiling, 
and poured around him many a bitter ar- 
row in revenge for unconcealed contempt ; 
but like a lion he shook them off powerless, 
or sent them back in tenfold strength, care- 
less of present fame, secure of the applause 
of posterity. So certain was he of the en- 
during reputation his talents had acquired 
and must acquire, that he scorned to an- 
swer calumny, conscious that his venerable 
name would alone arrest the calumniator 
from oblivion. His pride was unextinguish- 
able, and to his disdain of keeping secret 
his opinions he owed all the satire, which 
tried, but tried in vain, to crush him. Pope, 
exasperated by his condemnation of the 
translation of the Iliad, added a fourth 
book to the Dunciad to annihilate him ; and 
Boyle, seconded by all the wits in England, 
seized occasion from some dogmatical opin- 
ions most superciliously expressed, to write 
the sharpest book of satire which the world 
has seen since the days of Archilochus. To 
the first Bentley replied not ; but to the last 
he gave such an answer, that I know not, to 
any man who examines the controversy dis- 
passionately, a more perfect triumph in the 



60 

annals of literature, Bentley, alone and un- 
assisted against all the wit and learning of 
England, then abounding in wits, arrayed 
against him, was like Jupiter, balancing and 
sustaining the whole weight of inferior dei- 
ties. A learning so prompt, so perfectly at 
command, has rarely been witnessed, and 
while the carelessness of his assertions con- 
tinually laid him open to controversy, he 
had a confidence in his strength of mind 
that made him indifferent who attacked 
him, or whom he attacked; 

non ulla conjecta movebant 



Tela, neque adverso glomerati ex agmine Graii. 

It was not however to the commentator 
that this ardour for ancient learning was in 
the infancy of its revival confined. An 
universal spirit then seemed to reign, of 
imitating these re-opened authors — their 
thoughts were a thousand times repeated, 
and often in their very words, in the servile 
copies of their worshippers. The language 
was alone deemed worthy of an ambitious 
writer, which had been consecrated by 
embodying the great reflections and me- 
morials of antiquity ; and nothing could be 



61 

considered out of the reach of neglect, 
which was not treasured in one of these 
perfect tongues. They had floated unharm- 
ed, while numberless intermediate barba- 
rous dialects had perished, and they almost 
contained a spell to bid defiance to obli- 
vion for the works that were composed in 
them. The languages of modern Europe, 
still fluctuating and unfixed, nor boasting of 
the lasting models that could establish them 
sacred from change, gave despair to the as- 
piring minds, that any works in these lan- 
guages could receive sufficient durability 
to outlive even their authors — and they felt 
an ambition, a rivalship honourable even 
when unsuccessful, that their productions 
should descend to posterity, by the side of, 
and to be compared with, their noble proto- 
types. Such writings as were the offspring 
of leisure hours, or of relaxation from high- 
er studies, or which were thrown carelessly 
forth, little considered by the composers, 
were given in the vernacular tongue ; but 
such as tested eminence in genius or learn- 
ing, and were to live forever as master- 
pieces of the time, such must be transmit- 
ted in the venerated accents of ancient 



62 

Rome. Dante, we may venture to believe, 
would have written his Divina Commedia 
in Latin hexameters, if the interruptions 
and sorrows of a twenty years' exile had 
allowed it. He actually left several verses 
at the commencement of the Inferno trans- 
lated by himself, thus evidencing his wish 
to perpetuate, as he would have considered 
it, his golden work. Boccaccio, too, pre- 
pared all the laborious parts of his writings, 
on which his glory was to rest, in Latin, and 
would have scoffed at the idea, that the 
work composed for the amusement of Ita- 
lian ladies would survive the learned in- 
vestigations and commentaries of so many 
years of study. In like manner Petrarca 
bequeathed his reputation to his Latin pro- 
ductions. Yet often the learned author, 
with all his partiality for these composi- 
tions, could not but perceive the inferiority 
of his Latin verses to those of the Augustan 
age; thus Petrarca, many years after the 
completion of his Africa, a poem, the fa- 
vourite of princes, and the admiration of 
every European scholar, hearing some of its 
lines sung at Verona, wept with grief that he 
could not forever bury it from the world. 



63 

It is surprising that the restorers of learn- 
ing, who followed within two or three cen- 
turies these lights of the world, did not 
from their examples discover the impossi- 
bility of equalling, or even of emulating, 
the ancient writers in the ancient langua- 
ges. A language is always adapted to the 
genius of the country which uses it. Dif- 
ferent in the infancy of civilization from 
that of a highly cultivated state of society, 
it assimilates itself to every change, and 
alters its form and compass with every pro- 
gressive advancement in refinement. The 
language of Chaucer is not our polished 
English — it is barren and rough in compa- 
rison — nor is the prose of Boccaccio, all 
smooth and harmonious as it is, the present 
tongue of Italy. As the people lose their 
rudeness, their tongue loses its original 
tone, and adopts another more congenial; 
it attends them in every incursion into the 
fields of science and letters, and gains from 
each some conquest- — from this, grace, from 
another, flexibility — rising with every no- 
bler taste, and adding to its richness from 
every generous art. But a dead language 
is unsusceptible of these alterations, as we 



64 

receive so we must preserve it. Admirably 
adapted, as the Latin is, for expressing with 
force and freedom the manners of its pa- 
rent nation, it is stiff and indocile when 
violently transplanted to a foreign country. 
Full and complete as regards the ancient 
customs, it cannot suit itself to the compli- 
cated and intricate structure of modern in- 
stitutions, moulded out of systems of which 
the Romans never dreamt. The expres- 
sions lose their force — they do not apply in 
their extent to the interpretation a Roman 
would give them ; they belong to antiquity, 
to its mighty works, to its fanciful mytho- 
logy, and all the superstitions and traditions 
of an unenlightened world. But the great 
difficulty with regard to an ancient lan- 
guage is, that we cannot invent new terms 
for new ideas. We are forced to distort 
them to mean something different from their 
original significations, and one word may 
therefore have a double sense, an old, as it 
was understood in ancient days, a new, as 
it is applied to modern thoughts. The ex- 
treme admiration of the Augustan writers 
increased the difficulty. Every one was 
ambitious of writing prose like Cicero's, 



65 

and poetry like Virgil's, and therefore the 
successful author was sure to be a copyist — 
the more perfect the imitation the greater 
was the skill. Hence originality was less 
sought than purity. The scholar was fear- 
ful of employing a new phrase, lest it should 
be a solecism — a new term he dared not 
invent, and the vocabulary he possessed 
shrunk from the different and improved 
state of society. 

The same admiration, which made them 
waste their learning in imitations of the lan- 
guage and ideas of their models, gave im- 
portance to the most trivial circumstances 
connected with antiquity. Disputes arose 
concerning points, which were mere mat- 
ters of taste, or which were not of sufficient 
consequence to merit them. Poggio and 
Guarino waged a violent warfare with each 
other, in which every term of abuse was 
exhausted, upon the question whether the 
elder Scipio was to be preferred to Julius 
Caesar. 

In consequence of this unmeasured love, 
and the eagerness with which the discovery 
of an unknown author was hailed, many im- 
positions, either sportive or designed, were 
9 



66 

practised upon learned men. Muretus gave 
to the great Scaliger some Iambic verses, 
which Scaliger published with much pa- 
rade as the fragment of an old tragedian ; 
and almost immediately after Muretus ac- 
knowledged the imposture. A small poem 
de Lite being placed in the hands of Box- 
hornius, the learned German wrote a full 
commentary, as on a valuable relic of some 
ancient author; but soon the labour was 
found to be vain, as it was ascertained to 
be the production of Hospitalius, a Chan- 
cellor of France.* Alberti, an Italian scho- 
lar, composed in 1425 a Latin comedy call- 
ed Philodoxios, of which he circulated co- 
pies among his friends, as the work of a 
Roman poet named Lepidus. It was re- 
ceived as genuine and loaded with vast 
applause — Lepidus was elevated into a 
comparison with Plautus and Terence, and 
even a century after the younger Aldus 
printed it, gravely acknowledging in the 
preface his ignorance of the comic poet 
Lepidus.t A stratagem of a similar kind 
is said to have been successfully attempted 

* Bentley's Dissertation on Phalaris. 
t Roscoe's Lorenzo de Medici. 



67 

by Michel Angelo. Incensed at the jealous 
criticism with which his rivals endeavoured 
to depreciate his productions, he finished in 
secrecy a statue of Bacchus, and breaking 
off one of its arms, buried it where he knew 
it would soon be dug up. It was found, and 
proclaimed by the united voice of the con- 
noisseurs, to be superior to every work of 
modern sculptor, when Michel Angelo very 
calmly produced the broken arm, and enjoy- 
ed in silent triumph their discomfiture. 

While on this subject it may not be in- 
apposite to mention the following curious 
mistake.* At the time when the fragments 
of Petronius Arbiter were making a noise 
in the learned world, Meibomius, a Profes- 
sor of Lubec, chanced to light on this pas- 
sage in a letter from a Bolognese scholar : 
"We have here at Bologna an entire Pe- 
tronius." Meibomius, filled with the lite- 
rary mania, and fearing to be anticipated, 
starts post-haste for Italy, arrives at Bo- 
logna, and at once inquires for the librarian 
Capponi. " Have you," said he, " an entire 
Petronius?" "It is indeed true," replied 
the librarian. " Take me then at once to 

* D'Israeli's Curiosities of Literature. 



68 

see it," exclaimed Meibomius in all the 
extasies of delightful expectation. Cap- 
poni escorts the Lubec Professor to the 
cathedral, and pointing to a cemetery said, 
"Here lies the real body of Saint Petro- 
nius." Meibomius, speechless with the 
disappointment, turned upon his heel, and 
the same day saw him some leagues from 
Bologna. 

In fact the ancient idolatry seemed now 
revived, with a change only of the objects 
of worship — the idols were the dead. Each 
scholar selected some individual of anti- 
quity, for whom he felt an unbounded vene- 
ration. Petrarca was an enthusiast of Ci- 
cero, Poggio of Pindar, Politian of Horace. 
Navagero yearly on his birth-day performed 
a solemn sacrifice to Virgil. Surrounded 
by his friends, after an eulogium on the 
honoured bard, he ordered a copy of Mar- 
tial to be brought to him, and, throwing it 
into the flames, added, that he considered 
as the most acceptable offering to the 
manes of Virgil, the destruction of a vo- 
lume filled with so much affectation and 
false taste.* 

* Stradae Prolusion. 



69 

From this, according to Lord Bacon,* 
sprung the excessive love of purity, which 
led more to niceness of style than atten- 
tion to thought. Cicero's works were read 
time after time, more in order to catch the 
harmony of his periods and a familiarity 
with choice phrases, than to taste the beau- 
ties of his philosophy or the charms of his 
eloquence. Among the scholars whose 
names are most regarded by the lovers of 
Classical Letters, as their ornament and 
critic, Erasmus first perceived the folly 
of this over-chasteness of phraseology, and 
bent the finest weapons of his satire against 
the immoderate imitation of Cicero. His 
Ciceronianus was written to expose the 
absurdity, where he introduced " the scoff- 
ing echo" to the Ciceronian's exclamation, 
" Decern annos consumpsi in legendo Cice- 
rone," replying in Greek Hvs, asine. 

So far was this idolatry carried by the 
scholars who restored ancient literature, 
that many serious men began to be alarm- 
ed lest Paganism should re-establish itself, 
and the worship of Jupiter and his attend- 
ing train supersede the religion of Christ. 



70 

This apprehension, which was among others 
expressed by the great Erasmus, was not 
altogether so visionary as in this age of in- 
formation it may appear. There have been 
many, who, born in a Christian country, yet 
seduced by the charm of poetical mytho- 
logy, have wandered back into the foot- 
steps of an ancient faith. Among the ad- 
mirers whom the eloquence of Plato at- 
tracted, one, Gemisthus Pletho, in the fif- 
teenth century, enraptured with his noble 
abstractions, considered himself as a se- 
cond prophet born to bring back mankind 
to the creed of his favourite philosopher. 
A contemporary, enemy alike to Plato and 
Gemisthus, thus records his opinions ; " I 
have heard him myself, when we were to- 
gether at Florence, say, that in a short time 
all men would embrace one common reli- 
gion, which should be so simple as to allure 
every one by its mere exposition. I inqui- 
red, adds the narrator, if it would be the re- 
ligion of Christ or of Mahomet ? He repli- 
ed, Neither ; but a third, little differing from 
Paganism." In the book containing an ac- 
count of his system, which was publicly 
burnt after his death, he is said to have 



71 

advocated Polytheism, and over the vari- 
ous orders of deities to have set one su- 
preme king whom he styled Zeus or Jupi- 
ter; thus adopting the belief and nomen- 
clature of ancient worship. The following 
is another instance of the effect of Classic 
studies in tincturing religion with pagan 
errors. In the reign of Louis XII., a native 
of Abbeville, named Hemon de la Fosse, 
by continually perusing and dwelling on 
the ancient writers, at last persuaded him- 
self that the religion of Homer, Cicero, and 
Virgil, could not but be true. One day in 
1503, being at church, he suddenly snatch- 
ed the host from the hands of the astonish- 
ed priest as he was raising it, exclaiming, 
" Away with this mummery." He was seiz- 
ed, imprisoned in the hope that he would 
abjure his folly, but in vain; he persisted 
that Jupiter was the Father of Heaven, and 
the Elysian Fields the Paradise of the Blest. 
He was condemned by the cruelty of the 
time to expiate his absurd fanaticism at the 
stake, a martyr to the religion of Greece 
and Rome.* 

* D'Israeli's Curiosities of Literature. 



72 

These extravagances, excusable as pro- 
ceeding from the first glances of those pre- 
cious authors who were fraught with so 
many and so various improvements to man- 
kind, were at length worn off by the more 
familiar acquaintance with them. A more 
enlightened spirit of criticism was lent by 
the Classical pages to open the eyes as well 
to their faults as their excellencies. The 
impropriety of quitting the modern langua- 
ges for the dead became manifest — the na- 
tive tongue of the writer was considered 
by him the most suitable vehicle to convey 
his thoughts to the world, but the influence 
of ancient literature was not thereby dimi- 
nished. No longer the plodding scholar 
appropriated to himself the joys of learn- 
ing, but Classic Letters made themselves 
felt in the beauties of modern composition ; 
they were seen giving method, delicacy, 
and ornament to poetry, opening exhaust- 
less sources of liberal enthusiasm and inspi- 
ring eloquence. Taste smiled once again 
on the shores of Italy, and from thence 
spread her influence to every clime, throw- 
ing back the monastic gloom and scholastic 



73 

subtleties of ages of barbarism. Divine 
philosophy, assisted and enlightened by a 
truer religion, sprung from the mistaken yet 
sublime opinions of ancient times, to ele- 
vate and instruct mankind. The beauties 
which no age can dim, the fire which no 
neglect can extinguish, were transferred to 
rival pages. Science started from the goal 
set before her to take a farther progress 
than antiquity ever witnessed ; while free- 
dom, that kindling spark, which illumes the 
Classic volumes, and which never fails to 
find some proper fuel in the generous 
breast, taught the scholar to pride himself 
in the noble annals of republican, of self- 
governing peoples. Simplicity of thought 
and style was again admired, the false and 
affected glare of tawdry ornament faded 
before the superior elegance and chaste- 
ness of these early models. Precepts were 
supplied to guide the author, of the excel- 
lence of which the works, which contained 
or obeyed them, were the tests. As in the 
ancient sculptured images the exquisite 
proportions, and all the symmetry of con- 
summate skill, matchless even in the minut- 
est details, become the standards of modern 
JO 



74 

art, despairing while it follows them; so in 
the various parts of literature, the arrange- 
ments, the divisions, the rules of antiquity, 
are always the foundation of our criticism, 
and frequently its limit. Often do we find 
that to alter is not to improve ; and as we 
look on our own literature, modelled upon 
that of the Classic ages, yet from the supe- 
rior information and better feelings of im- 
proved religion and society, breathing a 
juster spirit ; we are reminded of some 
Christian temple built in the pure taste of 
Grecian art, whose ornaments and supports 
are still the Ionian columns, cut from the 
quarries which produced the Parthenon, 
but changed, nobly changed in the form 
and character of its worship. 

Yet if the taste for antiquity has exer- 
cised so propitious an influence on modern 
letters, it has been productive of some dis- 
advantage. It has opened an immense field 
for imitation. It has excused the servile 
follower of Classic images and Classic 
themes, by displaying such a range of 
ideas, that he who thinks not deeply will 
think the power of creation exhausted; 
will give up the hope of originality, and 



look for fame in tracking ancient steps. He 
will think every subject of morals and poli- 
tics pursued to its extent ; the imageries of 
poetry all pre- occupied, and as he finds a fa- 
vourite thought which he had appropriated 
to himself, rooted up from the Classic soil 
by some restless antiquary, he will be apt 
to exclaim with the modern wit, " Cursed 
be these ancients who have stolen my best 
thoughts." That this has been the conse- 
quence of Classical learning must be ac- 
knowledged ; and many a scholar has wish- 
ed for the burning of the already-treasured 
knowledge of the world, that the earth, its 
flowers, and its scenery, and the beautiful 
phenomena of nature, might be opened 
again for fanciful theory, or for poetical 
embellishment. Does a fine idea now rise 
in the ardent imagination — beware, it may 
be discovered in the middle of Homer — 
or Pindar, Virgil, or Tully, may be evo- 
ked from the tomb to convict you of pla- 
giarism. Do the stars, in the inspiring 
hours of a summer's mildness, suggest some 
image bright as themselves, or does the 
moon as she beams on you awake some 
stirring fancy, or the note of a favourite 



7ti 

air wafted from a distance almost convert 
you to believe in the music of nature — 
exult not too much — all these scenes have 
been witnessed, have been described, by 
poets more imaginative than yourself, and 
the fable of the music of the spheres was 
invented by Orpheus some 3000 years ago.* 
So it is that the imagination is thwarted, 
and the malicious critic, beyond every other 
delight, loves to trace the progress of a 
thought, as it first originated in Greek or 
Roman times, and has improved or degene- 
rated in its transmission to ourselves. 

It is to poetry that Classical Letters have 
most to answer. The light which they 
caused to stream on mankind, and the ap- 
petite for knowledge they awakened, broke 
up at once all the illusions which gave to 
common objects the poetical colouring of 
hope and fear. They led men more to 
think, more to limit the rovings of fiction, 
more to consult the realities of things ; and 
fancy, ere she dared to indulge in her wild 
chimeras, was forced to ask of reason 
whether what she was to relate was pro- 
bable. New inventions were cut off, and 

* So says Servius in Mneiti VI. v. 645. 



77 

combinations were to be made of the al- 
ready-acquired knowledge, nor could the 
adventurous spirit add to it of its own crea- 
tions, since men became too wise to be im- 
posed on. The poet no more could call 
from the tomb the restless spirit to predict 
the future, while the listener gazed in silent 
horror at the visitant of another world. 
The extravagance might perhaps be after- 
wards allowed, but it was not believed — 
the magic wand ceased to enchant — the in- 
visible ring worked no charm — and the ne- 
cromancer's art, fortified by spells potent 
as the grave, and the whole train of su- 
pernatural agents, no more could terrify. 
They were spirits that fled at the approach 
of dawn, and superstition, unable to brook 
the revival of ancient learning, called them 
away with her to seek some darker region. 
But as she went, poetry lost half its terrors 
— it could indeed speak to the guilty con- 
science, but the victim no longer fled hor- 
ror-struck from the unearthly spectre or the 
hovering demon ready to seize on him. 

But ancient letters did not rob modern 
poetry merely of these, but it extinguished 
the most beautiful fancy, which mankind 



78 

perhaps ever conceived, a fancy, too, near- 
ly allied to the finest Classical fictions. I 
mean the belief of Fairies. These imagi- 
nary beings, which resembled some of the 
nymphs of former times, gave a delightful 
hue to poetry and romance. A sort of 
guardian spirits to the good — delicate in 
form, beneficent in action — preserving from 
the dominion of evil passions, and appear- 
ing like angels in the time of danger or 
temptation, to assist in the one, to repel the 
other; they yet almost approached to hu- 
manity in a hundred little caprices and 
foibles, which but made them the more in- 
teresting. They did not confine themselves 
to the gay and the noble, the feudal chief- 
tain and the castled splendour, but they 
mixed themselves with rustic sports, they 
sweetened rustic labour — they gave a higher 
interest to every more verdant spot, to each 
fairer scene. Upon the green turf their fro- 
lic ring was traced, or perhaps dissatisfied 
with earth, they winged their fanciful flight 
to the realms of fairy-land. There what- 
ever of beauty of scenery, of delicacy of 
taste, of perfection of colour and perfume, 
the rich imagination of the poet could 



79 

devise, these fairy-forms went to enjoy — 
returning for deeds of kindness, and often, 
when some stainless knight pleased them, 
or some lovely damsel asked their protec- 
tion, they would steal them from the min- 
gled sorrow and joy of the world, and carry 
them to their fairy shores of unchanging fe- 
licity. To these Classical Letters gave an 
irrecoverable shock. The whole current of 
fancy turned a different way. The Naiads 
and Mountain-Nymphs expelled them from 
their rural haunts, while the Elysian Fields 
and the Islands of the Blest usurped the 
fairy regions. They expired, graceful and 
fragile beings, under the universal neglect; 
but now and then some gentle enthusiast 
still arises, who hallows their memory, and 
loves to trace their long-lingering steps in 
their ancient spots, as he mourns their de- 
parture. In place of them, and of the 
other fictions of less enlightened times, the 
more delicate parts of the Classic mytho- 
logy came to assist the poet. Daphnes 
arose in the vacant grove — not a fountain 
could be seen stealing its silent course but 
a nymph was invited to bathe in it ; and the 
hoary river-god was invoked to streams, 



80 

whose barbarian names, in Grecian days, 
would have frightened him from their 
waves. In the pastoral, imitative, vainly 
imitative, of the nature-breathing Idyls of 
Theocritus, the ancient gods and goddesses 
were called upon by Christian shepherds, 
and welcomed to plains which they had 
never visited. There seemed a magic in 
certain names, which were rung from mouth 
to mouth in endless changes ; while actual 
belief and the pretended rapture in mytho- 
logical fancies strangely warred, or were 
mingled in grotesque confusion. Here a 
saint — there a heathen god, — here a virgin- 
martyr — there a Venus — found themselves 
unnaturally pressed into each other's soci- 
ety, and poetry became a sort of mosaic- 
work, where pieces of every figure and 
colour were smoothed over and laid to- 
gether on a common ground. 

Not that the revival of ancient fictions is 
indiscriminately to be condemned. There 
are spots and scenes whose every associa- 
tion is so connected with them, that no 
lapse of time, no change of religion, can 
dispossess the imaginary inhabitants. The 
ruined temple, whose pillars are sinking 



81 

one by one in the dust, will ever call to 
mind the god once deemed to abide there ; 
the Athenian Acropolis, topped as it is with 
Christian shrines and Mahometan mosques, 
will still be kindling the Classic imagina- 
tion with the presence of Minerva ; the 
grot of Egeria will be haunted by the 
nymph who inspired laws of peace and 
softened rites to the mild governor of a 
martial people ; and the waters of Clitum- 
nus, which bathed the victim ere it led the 
triumphing Roman to the capitol, hallowed 
to the god of its fountains by a temple, in- 
jured but not destroyed by time, will awake 
some ancient superstitions, and for a mo- 
ment revive the ancient idolatry. Here the 
poet may revel unchecked, and bring up 
from their sunken habitations, once more 
to circle round him, the visionary forms of 
elder days : — 

But thou, Clitumnus ! in thy sweetest wave 
Of the most living crystal that was e'er 
The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave 
Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear 
Thy grassy banks, whereon the milk-white steer 

Grazes ; the purest god of gentle waters ! 

And on thy happy shore a temple still, 

Of small and delicate proportion, keeps ■ 

Its memory of thee. 

11 



82 

Pass not unblest the Genius of the place ! 
If through the air a zephyr more serene 
Win to the brow, 'tis his ; and if ye trace 
Along his margin a more eloquent green, 
If on the heart the freshness of the scene 
Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust 
Of weary life a moment lave it clean 
With Nature's baptism, — 'tis to him ye must 
Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust.* 

Literature now too lost the rich and gor- 
geous colours of romance. The institutions 
which had been so favourable, the manners 
which had been so adapted, to picturesque 
description, vanished gradually before the 
increase of knowledge. The outlaw, with 
his bow and clothyard shaft, and his dress 
of green, wandering through the forests, 
and gracing a hundred acts of violence 
with one of generosity, was banished from 
the poetic pages. The warlike tournament, 
where the feat of valour and skill drew 
down the applause of nobles and the fair- 
est dames, mingled with the throng of an 
empire's population — the splendid device 
—the waving pennon — the noble exercises 
of chivalry, where perils were braved for 
the sake of rescuing a stranger, and the 
knightly arm was renowned in the minstrel- 

* Childe Harold, Canto IV. 



83 

song as the avenger of the oppressed — 
where the bright eye was the motive and 
reward of heroic achievement, and the 
silken scarf or the token-ring more prized 
than a monarch's favour— fled from the eye 
of fancy, and every-day manners, and the 
substantial comforts of social life followed 
the entrance of Classical Letters. The 
laws of ancient Rome, now discovered and 
perused, were applied to mitigate the 
harshness of the feudal system. Society 
was established on a safer but a less imagi- 
native footing, and religion became more 
spiritual, abounding less in the superstitions 
and mysteries which made it so poetical. 
No religious pilgrims were seen mingling 
together of every variety and class of man- 
kind — the scallop shell and the palmer's 
staff did not come to repay the nightly 
hospitality with tales of enchantment tinted 
with the brilliant hues of Eastern fable, 
while the wondering auditors trembled at 
the mighty name of Saladin, or transported 
themselves to the holy sepulchre, and fan- 
cied the palms of Judah shaking over their 
heads. The way-worn traveller did not 
unlock before the envying eye the leathern 



84 

scrip, loaded with the holy dust of Calvary, 
or the relic of virtue to guard from danger 
or trouble . Nor did the minstrel, abound- 
ing in legendary information, the repositary 
and the embellisher of numberless wild tra- 
ditions, sing the triumphs of war and the 
rewards of faithful love, as he wandered 
from castle to castle, ever welcomed by 
the smiling glance of its lady-mistress — and 
perchance, as he was chanting the perils of 
absent lover in some Provencal tale, and 
the high-born damsel sat watching its chan- 
ges and incidents in weeping sympathy, the 
disguise would fly off, and the minstrel 
would display the very features of the war- 
rior-youth treasured in her heart. All these 
w r ere now gone, and the poet and the ro- 
mancer found themselves tied down to the 
soberness of truth, or if they yet dared to 
wander into the fields of fiction, hoping only 
for a temporary illusion. Criticism nicely 
weighed to condemn every deviation from 
probability, and reason and philosophy rais- 
ed their trophies over the prostrate fancy. 

But though we may be permitted thus 
playfully to lament the increase of light as 
unfavourable to poetry, and regret the lost 



85 

traditions and general credulity which al- 
lowed so fine a field for daring imaginations 
and fantastical descriptions, let us not be 
ungratefully regardless of the manifold ad- 
vantages which the revival of Classic Let- 
ters has conferred on literature and let- 
tered men. And surely we may be excused 
in our enthusiasm, when we observe the re- 
volution that took place in the system of 
education, and among the true scholars of 
Europe. The verbal frivolousness of the 
schools disappeared from the universities — 
the monkish historians and the folios of 
quibbling philosophy yielded to the beauti- 
ful, tasteful, and delightful volumes of Gre- 
cian and Roman learning. No more was 
the young ambition sent to dull its fancies 
in miserable subtleties, but it was taught to 
raise its glance, and direct its aspirations, 
to those at once models and instruments of 
perfection. The men of letters did not, as 
before, form a class strongly marked from 
the rest of the world, but Classic studies 
came forth into every rank of polished life; 
they scorned the poor limits of monasteries 
and colleges, and entered into the elegant 
amusements, the pleasures of the finished 



86 

gentleman. It was soon seen that refine- 
ment could not be perfect unless adorned 
with the grace of letters; and the noble 
inheritant of immense estates found his 
riches powerless unless surmounted and 
distinguished by a cultivated taste. He 
no longer preferred to waste his hours in 
idleness, or destroy by riotous courses the 
insipidity of his existence, but he learnt to 
look for occupation, joy, and variety, in 
studies worthy of him. The arts of peace, 
too, now predominated to remove the proud 
attachment hitherto shown to war — the fe- 
rocity of feudal dissensions was softened 
away by companionship in literary pursuits, 
or shamed by the empire now extending of 
intellect. The exercises of the body gave 
place to those of the mind ; pride of birth 
was humbled by the pride of genius, and 
gentle courtesy prevailed over the brutality 
of a Scythian ancestry. The spreading 
love of literature introduced more liberal 
feelings towards other nations — the scho- 
lars of climes once hostile considered them- 
selves as brothers in a common cause, and 
maintained with each other friendly inter- 
course and correspondence — Classic history 



87 

brought the hope of greater freedom, and a 
better acquaintance with popular rights as 
distinguished from the overweening prero- 
gatives of sovereigns. The arts of liberty 
were likewise courted ; and as the author 
in his full admiration of ancient volumes, 
strove to transfuse their beauties into his 
own language, so the generous scholar 
thirsted to raise his country to a level with 
the great and free nations he read of, by 
embellishing it with the first ornaments of 
wealth — literature, and the fine arts. Edu- 
cation became general in the different or- 
ders of society, and to be eminent it was 
essential to be instructed. 

Classic Letters have a farther claim to 
our gratitude, as the parents of that literary 
ardour — that ambition for literary distinc- 
tion — which they have so often infused into 
the worthy breast. That they have been 
sometimes misdirected to building up for 
the laborious student a reputation for mere 
learning, undigested and without judgment, 
cannot be denied ; but to the higher class 
of intellects they have inspired that taste- 
ful love of study, which continually increas- 
es, and looks with confidence for hours of 



88 

delight to a well-stored library. I speak 
not here of that unfruitful taste for study, 
the pleasure of learning for learning's sake, 
the pura voluptas literarum, which is con- 
tented with being gratified, and dies with 
the scholar without benefitting others. No 
—it is a higher object which chains him to 
his closet — at these ancient fountains he 
but stops to refresh, as it were, his mind for 
higher advances in knowledge — and invigo- 
rated he proceeds to rival his models if he 
cannot surpass them— he seeks to cull out 
for himself amid the immortal laurels which 
are blooming around him some amaranthine 
garland to cover his own brow — to cause to 
flourish in his own tongue something which 
may perpetuate his name, and make him a 
Classic for posterity. With these aims you 
will see the scholar, spurning the ambitions 
and temptations of life, toil on in the un- 
ceasing pursuit ; ransacking every corner 
of literature, spreading his researches to 
every part of antiquity, and never going in 
vain — but drawing here a fine idea, here a 
powerful stimulus, gathering here some of 
the poetical inspirings, which rise like the 
dew, healthful exhalations from the Classic 



89 

soil, to quicken and enrich his mind — then 
leaving the limits of ancient thoughts, and 
never resting till beauties as striking, in- 
ventions as new, and reflections, clothed in 
the eloquence just enthusiasm never fails to 
give, as profound as theirs, stand fixed in his 
own pages, to be in future times the begin- 
nings to others of superior discoveries. This 
is the ardour Classical Letters have awaken- 
ed and can awaken — and hence the thirst 
for increase in knowledge their admirers 
have acquired. Among them are to be 
sought those giants in learning, who have 
given to study, not the spare hours from 
other pursuits, but who have made it the 
sole and undivided business of their lives, 
sacrificing to it health, comfort, and fortune. 
And indeed what can create a greater de- 
sire of literary fame, than to see it thus 
continued ages and ages after the authors 
themselves have sunk into the tomb ? As 
the -scholar is absorbed in such meditations, 
hope, hope raises herself before him, point- 
ing to unnumbered years as the noble meed 
of a life of letters. 

This contemplation of the influence of the 
Classics upon literature is most pleasing to 



90 

the student, and gives them a stronger title 
to his admiration and love. For as he is 
reading them, not the events only they de- 
scribe are acted once again before him — 
not the great passions which swayed the 
republics of antiquity renew themselves in 
his breast — but more — the darkness of the 
middle ages — the insecurity of property — 
the monopoly of learning — the oppression 
extending through every rank — arise in all 
their gloom to his view, and then these be- 
nefactors are seen issuing from the grave 
like spirits of beneficence, to change the 
whole character of the world, and open to 
mankind, to the lowest as to the highest, 
glorious hopes. The history of the muti- 
lated manuscripts, defiled with dust, drag- 
ged from the prison-houses they had so 
unworthily been buried in, asks in him a 
deeper interest than the splendid but va- 
lueless records of pomps and tournaments, 
and all the exaggerated benefits of so much 
vaunted chivalry; he would rather attend, 
the persevering scholar in his rovings to dis- 
inter some unknown Latin or Grecian au- 
thor, than the mailed monarch to the field 
of blood. And ever, as he is dwelling on 
some of the spirited fancies of the Classic 



91 

bard, a hundred rival and delightful passa- 
ges in Spenser, in Tasso, in Milton, Ariosto. 
Pope, and so many other poets who have 
followed their ancient predecessors, crowd 
into his memory — and though borrowed, yet 
are adapted with so much skill to modern 
times, and have received so many delicate 
additional graces, that the imitation gives 
him a higher joy even than the original. 
He feels that he is not alone in his devotion 
to Classical studies — but was there ever a 
mighty genius who has thrown a stronger 
light upon the world, who has given out 
diviner beams of knowledge to improve or 
gratify it ; to those self-same pages has he 
had recourse — the scholar, proudly claiming 
kindred with him, may say, "I, too, have a 
portion of your taste, a relish keen as your 
own for antique beauties, and in one part at 
least of your character I can equal you." 

Among the subjects of this Lecture, 
which the length of the preceding remarks 
prevents me from touching upon, the most 
important, as well as the most interesting, 
is the effect of the Revival of Classical 
Learning upon Religion, in spiritualizing it, 
in freeing it from abuses, and becoming the 
main-spring of the Reformation. It must 



92 

surely be gratifying to the scholar to per- 
ceive, that the acquaintance and love of the 
ancient authors opened the way to clearer 
knowledge, and more careful perusal, of the 
Scriptures, and that the early advocates of 
Grecian studies so distinguished themselves 
by their efforts to purify Christianity from 
superstition, that the term Grseculus was 
soon synonymous with heretic. 

But I hasten to conclude with some brief 
observations on the influence of the Clas- 
sics upon the Fine Arts. And here the 
question may be asked, How has improve- 
ment in the Fine Arts resulted from the re- 
vival of the Classics ? As they are distinct 
branches of human genius, and each inde- 
pendent on the other, the scholar would 
seem at first sight to claim more for his 
studies than they are entitled to. Yet if 
the present state of our literature, if the 
ascendency of just principles of taste, have 
been consequent upon this revival, it would 
not be difficult to show that each of the 
Fine Arts is deeply interested in it — that 
the same love of simplicity which rejects 
false ornaments from poetry, will analo- 
gously reject from architecture and paint- 
ing unnatural proportions and exaggerated 



93 

colouring. Refinement in literature produ- 
ces refinement in every other art — as it 
gives smoothness, melody, and delicacy to 
versification, so it gives purity, truth, and 
elegance to painting; it is the progress of 
civilization which with equal step brings on 
with it the arts which belong to civilization, 
and he, w r ho enjoys the beauties of one of 
these arts, cannot but have some sensibility 
to the beauties of each of the others. In 
the middle ages the remains of the arts of 
the ancients at Rome received as little at- 
tention as the remains of their writings. 
Petrarca complained that no where was 
Rome less known than at Rome. Every 
thing was left to perish, and neglect assist- 
ed in its work of destruction the violence 
of time. But with the ardour for ancient 
volumes the love of ancient tastes revived ; 
— the men, who so contributed to the reco- 
very of Greek and Latin manuscripts, were 
equally zealous in disinterring the scattered 
medals and statues. Petrarca, Poggio, and 
Politian, directed their attention in turn to 
both pursuits ; and Lorenzo de Medici, the 
name honoured for the patronage of Classic 
Letters, bestowed a portion of the same 
munificence, which sent learned men in tin- 



94 

wearied journies through the world in quest 
of manuscripts, to forming a collection of 
ancient statues, and established an Aca- 
demy of Antiquities at Florence. 

But a more immediate influence was ex- 
ercised on the Fine Arts by the Classic vo- 
lumes, which now became the objects of 
universal regard. They in almost every 
page referred to the master-pieces of their 
times, and the faded ruins of Rome receiv- 
ed increased fascination and seemed again 
to be enlivened, when their history opened 
itself to the world. The associations con- 
nected with its forums, its baths, its ruined 
villas, all gave an interest to whatever was 
discovered in them; and every where the 
prying antiquary was seen spade in hand, 
turning up the soil of relics, that some rarer 
medal might come to light, that some more 
exquisite statue might rise before him, or 
the half-buried columns, whose capitals he 
could almost touch, might guide him to 
their bases, the spot of some majestic tem- 
ple or basilica. These fragments, while 
their history was unknown, raised in their 
spectators little curiosity. What was the 
Tarpeian Rock, or the Forum, or the Capi- 
toline Hill, to them, more than any other 



95 

similar place covered with dust ? Or the 
statue of Pompey, or the image of Venus, 
or the Wolf that suckled Romulus and Re- 
mus, more than good representations of hu- 
man or animal forms ? But when the pages 
of Livy, of Cicero, and of Tacitus, came to 
clothe with breathing objects the scenes 
which were around them; when here could 
be pointed(fthe place where Caesar bled, 
and there the gate through which Regulus 
passed, self-devoted yet unmoved ; when all 
the glories and all the heroes of Rome, im- 
peratrix gentium, not dead, but living Rome, 
the Rome of Cato, Brutus, Scipio, stood in 
the everlasting writings of its first geniuses 
to point their country — the country they 
were so proud of — to the view of admi- 
ring and envying nations ; then it was that 
the relics of Roman architecture became 
dearer to them than their possessions, and 
sculpture and painting, supported by Classic 
recollections, called up a thousand imitators 
to cultivate the arts of former Italy, as so 
many scholars now arose to cultivate its lan- 
guage. Then it was that Raffaelle stole to 
the Baths of Titus, whose vaults newly exca- 
vated were yet glowing with hues undimmed 
by age, to freshen his genius, returning from 



96 

the light and fantastic imagery and graceful 
figures to touch a softer pencil, and throw 
over the canvass an unwonted colouring. 

And in the general quest, which now took 
place, if one or two pillars inimitably carv- 
ed, tottering as if taking a last glance of 
the city they adorned, were seen in their 
helplessness, the ancient pages were turned 
over and over, to ascertain impossible of 
what temple sacred to recollections of Ro- 
man freedom these were the remnants. The 
literary enthusiast roamed about among the 
ruins, as if they contained the bones of his 
ancestors — he examined every inscription, 
criticised every fragment — and came filled 
indeed with grief at the mouldering soli- 
tude, but filled too with nobler and simpler 
tastes- — ready to look with disgust at the 
distorted and unformed structures of uncul- 
tivated art, and to diffuse in his own coun- 
try, or to carry to others, a reverence for pu- 
rer models. Did the cavilling modern, wed- 
ded to the prejudices of his unlettered fore- 
fathers, object — to convince him the Classic 
volumes, breathing poetry and taste, were 
appealed to, and never in vain. 

THE END. 






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